Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Tourists 01

The Czechs.

For a brief moment in the 1990s, Saint-Mystère was a destination.

No one quite remembers how it started—an article in a forgotten travel magazine, perhaps, or a whispered recommendation passed along border checkpoints and backpacker cafés. What is certain is that, for a few years, strangers arrived. Not many. Never in groups. Just a slow trickle of curious visitors drawn to the village where no one spoke and every window seemed to be watching.

The ones in this photo came from the Czech Republic, not long after the fall of the Iron Curtain. They stayed a week, maybe two. Camped just beyond the orchard. Kept mostly to themselves. In the mornings, they wandered the lanes. In the evenings, they sat near the war memorial and sketched the rooftops.

Then they were gone. Like the others.

No one comes anymore.
And in Saint-Mystère, no one talks about that time.

The Torres de Serranos (Valencia, Spain)

Torres de Serranos, Valencia, Spain. Constructed between 1392 and 1398 in Gothic style, this imposing twin-tower gate was once the main northern entrance to the walled city.

If stones could talk, the Torres de Serranos would roar with the voices of kings, prisoners, travelers, and centuries of celebration and sorrow. Rising like sentinels at the edge of Valencia’s old quarter, these twin towers once guarded the city’s main entrance — and today, they guard its memory.

Built at the end of the 14th century, between 1392 and 1398, the Serranos Towers were part of Valencia’s mighty medieval walls. Their purpose was both practical and symbolic. They served as a defensive stronghold, a customs checkpoint, and a statement of power: this was a wealthy city worth protecting. Named after the road that led to the mountainous region of Los Serranos, the gate was the northern portal to the Crown of Aragon’s Mediterranean jewel.

Walk through the wide central arch and you step into history. This was once the path of merchants carrying silk, spices, and news from the north. It was the gate through which royalty entered during grand processions. But not all who passed through came freely — during the Spanish Civil War, the towers were used as a makeshift prison. And for centuries before that, they held noble captives in their upper chambers.

The architecture is pure Valencian Gothic — robust and symmetrical, with heavy stonework, battlements, and a ceremonial flair. Above the entrance, delicate tracery and defensive machicolations remind you that this was both a fortress and a stage. Ceremonial receptions were often held here, with nobles watching the city from the terrace and crowds cheering below.

Though Valencia’s city walls were torn down in the 19th century to make way for modern growth, the Torres de Serranos remain standing — not as ruins, but as proud survivors. They are still used for celebrations, especially during the Fallas festival, when flames and fireworks light up the night sky behind their ancient silhouette.

Standing in front of these towers today, you can feel the weight of centuries pressing through the stone. And when you pass through their shadowed arch, you're not just entering the old city — you're stepping into Valencia’s living past.

How England Crushed the French Fleet at Sluys (1340)

A miniature of the battle from Jean Froissart's Chronicles, 15th century. BNF, fr. 2643 fol. 72.

In June 1340, the waters near the port of Sluys—on the coast of what is now the Netherlands—became the site of a brutal and decisive naval confrontation between England and France. This clash, known as the Battle of Sluys, marked one of the opening engagements of the conflict that would later be called the Hundred Years’ War—a protracted series of wars fought between the two kingdoms from 1337 to 1453. While the conflict is often associated with dynastic claims to the French throne, its roots also lay in fierce competition over trade, land, and political influence in western Europe.

At the time, King Edward III of England was pressing a claim to the French crown through his mother, Isabella, a French princess. The French monarchy, however, rejected his claim, invoking the Salic law to bar succession through the female line. As diplomatic relations collapsed, war broke out, and with it came the strategic need to control key maritime routes. England, dependent on cross-Channel supply lines and the wool trade, could not afford to lose control of the sea. The French, recognizing this, had concentrated a formidable fleet—estimates suggest between 120 and 200 ships—at Sluys, aiming to blockade English ports and launch raids along the southern coast of England.

The French strategy at Sluys relied on using their ships as floating fortresses: they chained them together across the mouth of the harbor, forming an improvised barrier that they hoped would halt any English attempt to break through. On board were thousands of soldiers and marines, perhaps as many as 20,000 men, including Genoese mercenary crossbowmen hired for their effectiveness in naval warfare.

Edward III, commanding a slightly smaller fleet of around 120 ships but supported by experienced sailors and longbowmen, decided to attack directly. On 24 June 1340, in a bold and aggressive move, the English fleet launched its assault. Utilizing superior maneuverability, coordinated tactics, and the deadly range of the English longbow, they managed to overpower the French fleet. The battle turned into a massacre: many French ships were captured or sunk, and thousands of French soldiers and sailors were killed or drowned.

The victory at Sluys gave England control of the English Channel for years to come. While it did not end the war—indeed, the Hundred Years’ War would drag on for more than a century—it secured a vital lifeline for English military campaigns in France and marked the beginning of England’s emergence as a serious naval power in medieval Europe.

Knights, Love, and Legends on the Ceiling of the Alhambra, Granada (Spain)

Ceiling painting from the Hall of the Kings, Alhambra (Granada, Spain), depicting a chivalric romance scene with Christian and Muslim knights, a noble lady, and mythic creatures. Late 14th–early 15th century Nasrid period.

Step into the Hall of the Kings in Granada’s Alhambra, and look up. On the curved ceiling, a vivid story unfolds — one of knights in shining armor, a noble lady, wild hunts, fierce tournaments, and a world where love and valor reign.

Painted directly onto leather stretched over wooden vaults, the scene is bursting with color and action. In the center, a lady sits near a fountain, perhaps playing a game of chess with a suitor. Around her, knights on horseback ride through lush gardens and thick forests filled with birds, lions, and bears. One moment shows a daring Muslim knight hunting a boar; another shows Christian warriors battling beasts. At the heart of it all is a dramatic joust between a Christian and a Muslim knight, charging at each other with lances in a contest of honor. The Muslim champion wins — a scene that may echo the ambitions of the palace’s Nasrid rulers.

This romantic, almost fairy-tale world reflects the spirit of chivalry that captivated both Islamic and Christian courts in medieval Spain. Knights here don’t just fight — they play, hunt, rescue, and love. The style is Gothic, likely painted by Christian artists, yet the themes blend seamlessly into the Islamic context of the Alhambra. It’s a rare, brilliant fusion of two worlds.

The Hall of the Kings was no ordinary room — it was a space for celebration and diplomacy. By surrounding themselves with scenes of bravery, love, and noble rivalry, the Nasrid rulers presented themselves as cultured, heroic, and worthy of admiration — not just in Granada, but across the whole of Europe.

Santa Catalina Castle – Tarifa’s Strange Watchtower – Tarifa (Spain)

Santa Catalina Castle, Tarifa (Spain).

Santa Catalina Castle is one of Tarifa’s most recognizable landmarks, proudly standing on a small hill overlooking both the Mediterranean and Atlantic coasts. Though it looks like a centuries-old fortress, this eye-catching structure was actually built in 1931 as an observation post, styled to resemble a 16th-century castle.

Its design blends fantasy with function. The large, somewhat exaggerated observation tower—with its distinctive mudejar-style arches and corner balconies—gives the building a unique, almost surreal appearance. Over time, this unusual silhouette has become a beloved symbol of the town.

The castle’s location is no accident. From its hilltop perch, it commands sweeping views over Playa Chica, the causeway to Isla de las Palomas, and the vast stretch of Playa de los Lances. For centuries, this spot has been of strategic importance, linking Europe and Africa, the Mediterranean and the Atlantic.

While the site itself has an older history—including a 16th-century chapel, a quarantine station during a plague, and a Napoleonic-era fort—the current building was part of a 20th-century plan by the Spanish Navy. Originally intended to house an optical signaling system, it was completed but never equipped for that purpose. Later, it served as a military post and weather station before falling into disuse.

Today, although the interior is closed to the public, Santa Catalina Castle remains a striking presence. Locals and visitors alike are drawn to its timeless silhouette and the spectacular panoramic views just outside its gates.

Marguerite Porete and the Mirror of Burning Love

Marguerite Porete lived in northern France during the 13th century, at a time when the church held tight control over spiritual authority — and when laywomen began to carve out spaces of their own. She was part of a larger, loosely connected movement of women called Beguines — pious, often unmarried women who lived in communities or alone, dedicated to prayer, care for the sick, and mystical contemplation. They weren’t nuns, and they didn’t follow formal vows. That made them hard to pin down — and sometimes threatening to church hierarchy.

Marguerite’s book, The Mirror of Simple Souls, was written not in Latin, the language of scholars, but in Old French — for readers like herself. It is no tidy treatise. Instead, it’s a dialogue between allegorical figures: Love, Reason, the Soul, and others. Through their voices, Marguerite explores the stages of the soul’s journey toward God — all the way to a mysterious state she calls annihilation.

"Love makes herself known by forgetting herself."
— The Mirror of Simple Souls

For Marguerite, the truly loving soul must empty itself of self-will — so completely that it no longer acts out of desire, fear, or even a need for salvation. Such a soul, she writes, “wills nothing of God’s will, for she has no will.” This was dangerous language. In an age of obedience and hierarchy, Marguerite described a soul so united with God that it no longer needed the Church, sacraments, or even reason.

She refused to recant her ideas, even after her book was condemned as heretical. In 1310, she was burned at the stake in Paris as a heretic — anonymous, unrepentant, and unafraid. Her name was nearly lost. But her words survived.

“The soul that is annihilated and stripped of will is not content with anything less than God Himself.”
— The Mirror of Simple Souls

Today, readers and scholars return to Marguerite not just for her defiance, but for her voice — lyrical, layered, strange and blazing. She speaks of love as fire, of the soul as mirror, of a God who desires no service but simple being. In doing so, she joins the ranks of other mystics — Meister Eckhart, Hadewijch, Julian of Norwich — but with a voice all her own.

What were the Beguines?
The Beguines were a medieval spiritual movement of laywomen — especially active in the Low Countries, France, and parts of Germany. They weren’t bound by religious vows and could leave their communities at any time. Many lived in begijnhoven — semi-monastic urban dwellings — while others lived independently. They practiced charity, nursing, and prayer, and many engaged in mystical contemplation. Though admired for their piety, they were also scrutinized and sometimes persecuted for their unregulated, female-centered religious life.

Further Reading:

• The Mirror of Simple Souls, trans. Ellen Babinsky (Paulist Press, 1993)

• Barbara Newman, From Virile Woman to WomanChrist

• Amy Hollywood, The Soul as Virgin Wife

• Sean L. Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor

Marguerite Porete, The Mirror of Simple Souls, Chapter 35 (Dialogue of the Soul and Reason).

St. Martin's Cathedral, Ypres (Belgium)

St. Martin's Cathedral, Ypres (Belgium).

The Sint-Maartenskathedraal (St. Martin's Cathedral) in Ypres, Belgium, is a striking example of Gothic architecture and a monument of historical resilience. Located in the heart of the city, this grand cathedral has witnessed centuries of change, destruction, and reconstruction. Originally built as a collegiate church in the 13th and 14th centuries, it was later elevated to cathedral status in the 16th century when Ypres briefly became a bishopric. Today, it stands as one of the most prominent landmarks in West Flanders, attracting visitors with its towering presence, magnificent stained-glass windows, and rich historical significance.

The origins of St. Martin’s Cathedral date back to the Middle Ages when Ypres was a thriving commercial center, particularly known for its textile industry. The construction of the original church began in the 13th century, with the aim of reflecting the city’s prosperity and religious devotion. Built in the Gothic style, the structure was characterized by its high vaulted ceilings, pointed arches, and an impressive tower that dominated the skyline.

In 1561, during the Counter-Reformation, Ypres was granted its own bishopric, and St. Martin’s Church was elevated to the status of a cathedral. However, this status was short-lived; in 1801, under Napoleon’s rule, the bishopric was dissolved, and the church reverted to its former role as a parish church.

One of the most defining moments in the history of Sint-Maartenskathedraal was its near-total destruction during World War I. Ypres, situated on the front lines of the Western Front, was the site of intense battles between German and Allied forces. The cathedral, along with much of the city, was reduced to rubble due to heavy artillery shelling.

After the war, the decision was made to rebuild Ypres, including its historic landmarks, to their original medieval designs. The reconstruction of St. Martin’s Cathedral was carried out in the 1920s under the guidance of architects who closely followed the original Gothic design. Today, the cathedral stands as a testament to the resilience and determination of the people of Ypres to preserve their heritage.

The cathedral’s architecture is a prime example of Gothic style, featuring soaring arches, ribbed vaults, and intricate tracery. The building’s most striking element is its tower, which rises to a height of approximately 100 meters (328 feet), making it one of the tallest structures in the region.

Inside, visitors can admire the stunning stained-glass windows, which depict biblical scenes and saints, adding a vibrant interplay of color and light to the interior. The high altar, elaborate choir stalls, and numerous chapels contribute to the grandeur of the space. The cathedral also houses several important tombs, including that of Bishop Jansenius, the founder of the Jansenist movement (see note below).

Note: The Jansenist movement was a 17th- and 18th-century theological movement within Catholicism, based on the teachings of Cornelius Jansen, Bishop of Ypres. Rooted in St. Augustine’s doctrines, it emphasized predestination, the necessity of divine grace for salvation, and strict moral rigorism. Jansenists opposed the Jesuit belief in free will and lenient approaches to confession. The movement was condemned by the Catholic Church, notably in the papal bulls Cum occasione (1653) and Unigenitus (1713). Despite suppression, Jansenism influenced religious and political thought in France and the Low Countries before gradually declining in the 18th century.

St. Martin's Cathedral, Ypres (Belgium).

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent: The Seventh Vigil

From left to right: Clotilde Varnier, Mireille de la Brume, and Odilon Laforge, as the The Judge, The Memory, and The Keeper at the The Seventh Vigil in Saint-Mystère Remains Silent.

In Saint-Mystère, where shadows grow,
A chapel waits for those who know.
Each seventh year, as autumn nears,
Three dreamers wake with quiet fears.

They wear the masks, they take their place,
Before the door they cannot face.
They speak no words, they make no sound,
While night folds tightly all around.

At dawn, the door is sealed once more,
The masks reduced to ash and lore.
Yet questions linger in the air:
What waits within? Who watches there?

And if a dream should come to you —
A mask, a bell, a door askew —
Will you resist its silent call?
Or sit… and let the darkness fall?

Pouring Wine for the Dead – Merida (Spain)

The Praefericulum and Patera on sides of the funerary altar for Servilia Secunda, daughter of Gaius, from Tingitana.

In the quiet, sunlit galleries of the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano in Mérida, a simple block of marble tells a story of memory, identity, and farewell. It’s not large—barely 60 centimeters high—but it’s richly carved, crowned with rosettes, adorned with ritual vessels, and inscribed with words of loss and devotion. This is a Roman funerary altar (from the 1st or 2nd century), dedicated nearly two thousand years ago to a woman named Servilia Secunda. She came from Tingis, modern-day Tangier (Marocco), and died in Augusta Emerita, the capital of Roman Lusitania. Her final resting place speaks volumes not just about her, but about how Romans honored their dead.

On the left side of the altar, we see a libation jug (praefericulum): round-bodied, with a short neck and elegant handle. On the right side, a patera—a flat offering bowl—emerges in shallow relief, its handle ending in a ram’s head. Though the marble is weathered, the symbolism is clear: these were the sacred instruments of remembrance.

Rituals of Wine and Memory

In Roman tradition, the dead were not simply buried and forgotten. They were honored with acts of pietas—dutiful care—that continued long after death. On specific days, families would return to the grave with wine, oil, milk, honey, or even water. They would pour these liquids over the tomb or into special libation tubes, believing the offerings nourished the spirits of their loved ones.

The patera and jug depicted on funerary altars like this one from Mérida are not ornamental flourishes. They are icons of ritual. The patera, held in the right hand, was used to pour the libation; the jug replenished it. Together, they signaled to all who passed: this is a place of sacred remembrance. These symbols were often carved on the narrow sides of the altar, carefully oriented so the jug’s spout pointed toward the name of the deceased—visually connecting the act of offering to the person it honored.

In some cases, the handle of the patera was shaped like a ram’s head, as here. This may evoke the purification rituals that followed Roman funerals, where a ram or other animal was sacrificed to cleanse the mourners. The art thus compressed multiple layers of meaning into a single gesture: grief, memory, and spiritual hygiene.

The Woman from Tingis

The inscription on the front of the altar is formal, moving, and deeply Roman in tone:

D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) / Servilia G(ai!) f(ilia) / Secunda Ting(itana) / ann(orum) LXVII / h(ic) s(ita) e(st) s(it) (t)ibi (terra) l(evis) / Helvia Rusticilla / d(e) (!) f(aciendum) c(uravit)

Meaning: "To the spirits of the dead. Servilia Secunda, daughter of Gaius, from Tingitana, aged 67, lies here. May the earth rest lightly upon you. Helvia Rusticilla took care to have this made."

Though only a few lines, this epitaph offers a wealth of information. We learn Servilia’s full Roman name, her origin from North Africa, her age, and the name of the woman—Helvia Rusticilla—who arranged for this monument. Perhaps she was a friend, relative, or freedwoman. The phrase sit tibi terra levis—“may the earth lie lightly upon you”—is a traditional Roman wish for peace in the afterlife.

A Shared Language of Grief

What’s remarkable is how standard, yet personal, this monument feels. The language, the symbols, the rosettes and garlands—all echo similar altars across the empire. Yet the mention of Tingis hints at migration, at personal history across provinces, at someone who had a life, a journey, and relationships in a distant place before coming to Emerita.

Mérida’s museum contains dozens of such altars, and nearly all feature the patera and jug. Sometimes they are paired with portraits or garlands; sometimes they stand alone. But they always point to the same idea: that the dead were still part of the social world. They could be visited, remembered, fed, and honored. The altar was not a gravestone in our modern sense—it was a sacred platform, ready for the next libation, the next whisper of memory.

Visiting Today

You can see the altar of Servilia Secunda in the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano in Mérida. It is catalogued as “MNAR 569” and sits among dozens of others from the Roman necropolises of Augusta Emerita. Standing before it, you might imagine a friend or daughter placing a small offering of wine into the focus atop the stone, the scent rising like a prayer.

A gesture made for the living—and for the dead.

From Empire to Patchwork: France Between 800 and 1035

The Expansion of the Frankish Realm: From Clovis to Charlemagne (481–814). (Image: Frankish Empire 481 to 814" by Amitchell125, based on work by Altaileopard, licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.)

On a cold Christmas morning in the year 800, the great Frankish king Charles—better known as Charlemagne—knelt in prayer before the altar of Saint Peter’s in Rome. Behind him, Pope Leo III rose and placed a golden crown on his head, declaring him Imperator Romanorum—Emperor of the Romans. The coronation shocked even Charlemagne. He had spent decades conquering, legislating, and Christianizing, but now he stood at the head of a reborn Western Empire, heir not just to the Franks, but to Rome itself.

From that moment, Europe—particularly what we now call France—was drawn into a centuries-long drama: the struggle between the ideals of imperial unity and the forces of local power. And by the year 1035, that empire had fractured. France, as we recognize it today, was still embryonic: a map not of one kingdom, but of dozens. The King of France, a descendant of Charlemagne in name but not in power, controlled little more than the region around Paris. Dukes, counts, and bishops ruled the rest, each with his own ambitions, army, and sense of sovereignty.

This is the story of how that transformation unfolded—how an empire of dreams gave way to a kingdom of fiefdoms.

The Empire of Charlemagne

When Charlemagne was crowned emperor in 800, his rule already stretched across most of Western Europe. From the Pyrenees to the Elbe, from the North Sea to central Italy, his authority was unrivaled. But Charlemagne was not simply a conqueror. He was a reformer, a legislator, and a deeply Christian ruler who envisioned a unified res publica Christiana—a public order bound by faith, law, and learning.

He promoted Latin education, standardized weights and measures, oversaw land redistribution, and maintained a network of royal agents (missi dominici) to administer justice in his name. His court at Aachen became a center of cultural and administrative revival.

But Charlemagne’s empire was, at heart, personal. Loyalty flowed through oaths to the man, not institutions. And personal empires, as history has shown time and again, rarely survive long beyond their founder.

Fracture and Inheritance

Charlemagne died in 814. His only surviving legitimate son, Louis the Pious, inherited the imperial crown. Louis was a deeply religious man, but lacked his father’s commanding presence. He spent much of his reign trying to balance power between his sons. His attempts to divide the empire while maintaining unity failed, and after his death in 840, civil war erupted.

The empire was finally split by the Treaty of Verdun in 843. Charlemagne’s grandsons—Lothair, Louis the German, and Charles the Bald—divided the realm into three kingdoms. Charles received the western third: West Francia, the core of what would become modern France. But the empire’s dismemberment had long-lasting consequences.

Charles the Bald, and his successors, bore the title of king, but increasingly lacked control over the land beyond their own demesne. Powerful nobles—many of whom had risen in response to invasions and internal chaos—began to dominate local life. Fortified castles sprang up across the countryside. Power, once centralized in the imperial court, now shifted toward the lords of the land.

The Treaty of Verdun (843): Division of the Carolingian Empire Among Charlemagne’s Grandsons. (Image: "Vertrag von Verdun en" by Ziegelbrenner, licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.)

The Viking Factor

Among the most immediate pressures came from the north. In the mid-9th century, Viking raiders—Danes, Norwegians, and Swedes—descended upon the coasts and rivers of West Francia in longships. They plundered monasteries, burned towns, and overwintered in fortified camps. The kings of West Francia were often powerless to stop them.

Rather than wage endless war, King Charles the Simple struck a deal. In 911, he granted land around the lower Seine River to the Viking chieftain Rollo, on the condition that Rollo convert to Christianity and defend the region against future raids. This land became the Duchy of Normandy. Its rulers—originally Norsemen—would become some of the most formidable lords in all of France.

By 1035, the duchy was thriving. Its duke, Robert I (called the Magnificent), had gone on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, leaving his illegitimate son William—still a child—in charge. That boy would become William the Conqueror, and his future conquest of England in 1066 would tie France and England together in centuries of dynastic entanglement.

The Rise of the Feudal Lords

As Normandy emerged, so too did other regional powers. In the southwest, the Dukes of Aquitaine governed vast lands, stretching from Poitiers to the Pyrenees. Aquitaine was culturally distinct, with its own dialect and customs, and its rulers acted with near-total independence.

In the northeast, the Counts of Flanders dominated the economic life of the region, trading with England and the Low Countries. In the center of the kingdom, the Counts of Blois controlled key cities like Chartres, Tours, and Troyes—forming a buffer between the royal domain and the Champagne plains.

And in the rugged land of Anjou, Fulk III, known as Fulk Nerra or Fulk the Black, carved out a reputation as one of the most brutal and effective warlords in France. A brilliant tactician and relentless castle builder, Fulk waged war on his neighbors and expanded Angevin influence across western France. In 1035, he was still alive, nearing the end of his long reign, and preparing to hand power to his son, Geoffrey Martel. This family line—the Angevins—would later give birth to the Plantagenet dynasty, which would rule England and much of France in the 12th and 13th centuries.

A Weak but Persistent Monarchy

All the while, the Capetian kings clung to power. In 987, following the death of the last Carolingian king, the crown had passed to Hugh Capet, Duke of the Franks. Though his election was the beginning of the longest continuous royal line in European history, it was a fragile inheritance. Hugh, and his son Robert II, held sway over only a modest royal domain. Their influence did not extend far beyond the Île-de-France.

By 1035, Henry I had just taken the throne after the death of his father, Robert II. Young and untested, he faced a kingdom dominated by barons who owed him homage in theory, but in practice governed independently. France had a king, but little centralized state.

1035: A Fractured Realm

So what did France look like in 1035?

It was a land of lords, not a unified state. The king ruled in name, but dukes, counts, and bishops wielded true authority. Some were descendants of Carolingian officials; others were former Viking raiders. Local customs, languages, and loyalties often mattered more than the distant king in Paris.

But though fragmented, this was also a time of innovation. Feudal bonds created webs of mutual obligation. The Church expanded its influence, promoting peace and education. Castle-building transformed warfare and society. And the seeds of future conflict—between kings and vassals, between France and England—were being planted.

France around 1035: A Feudal Mosaic of Royal, Ducal, and Ecclesiastical Territories. (Map from The Historical Atlas by William R. Shepherd, 1911 - University of Texas at Austin.)

From Charlemagne to Capet

The year 800 marks the high point of imperial ambition in the West—a moment when one man stood above a continent, cloaked in Roman and Christian authority. The year 1035, by contrast, captures the culmination of disintegration: a time when power was local, fractured, and fiercely contested.

Yet the story does not end there. The Capetians would endure, slowly expanding their power over centuries. The dukes and counts of 1035 would one day become subjects of the crown. And the idea of France—obscured in the patchwork of the early eleventh century—would eventually emerge again, this time more enduring than before.

Further Reading

• The Carolingians: A Family Who Forged Europe – Pierre Riché

• Charlemagne – Roger Collins

• Feudal Society – Marc Bloch

• The Capetians: Kings of France 987–1328 – Jim Bradbury

• The Normans – Levi Roach

• The Plantagenet Ancestry – W.H. Turton

• The Origins of the French Nation – Edward James

The Industrial Revolution in Spain: A Catalyst for Social and Political Change

Spain’s Industrial Revolution, which gained momentum in the 19th century, was slower and more uneven than in other European nations. Industrialization remained concentrated in Catalonia’s textile sector and the Basque Country’s steel and mining industries, while much of Spain retained its agrarian structure. This imbalance shaped economic and social tensions that would later contribute to political unrest.

Industrialization spurred mass migration from rural areas to cities like Barcelona and Bilbao, leading to rapid urban growth, overcrowding, and worsening living conditions for the working class. While a new industrial bourgeoisie gained influence, the working class faced exploitation, fueling the rise of labor unions and socialist and anarchist movements. In contrast, rural areas suffered depopulation and economic decline, further deepening social divides.

The Catholic Church, historically dominant in Spanish society, aligned with the monarchy and landowners to resist socialist and anarchist ideologies. It promoted Catholic trade unions and charitable initiatives but faced growing hostility from workers and secular movements. This opposition intensified as calls for social reform, land redistribution, and regional autonomy gained traction.

The social fractures caused by industrialization—urban-rural disparities, class struggles, and regional tensions—exacerbated Spain’s political instability. By the early 20th century, strikes, protests, and political violence became widespread. The Church’s close ties to conservative elites made it a target of leftist movements, leading to deepening polarization. These conflicts culminated in the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), where conservative forces, led by Franco and supported by the Church, clashed with leftist republicans. Franco’s victory reinstated authoritarian rule, suppressing many of the social changes that industrialization had set in motion.

Dépôt-Vente 18, Sancoins (France)

Dépôt-Vente 18, a shop so fine,
Where your old stuff says, "Now I’m divine!"
Sell it or buy it, it’s all quite the scene,
Secondhand chic at number 18!

Confession

His hands are shaking, voice unsure,
 "I’ve found love, gentle and pure."

She listens close, then starts to grin,
 Sees the light that glows within.

"Oh, Daddy dear, love’s never too late!"
 Her eyes shine wide, her heart elate.

He laughs, relieved — his heart beats free,
 Love’s not lost, it must be.

Burgalimar Castle (Baños de la Encina, Spain)

Burgalimar Castle (Baños de la Encina, Spain).

Baños de la Encina’s Burgalimar Castle played a pivotal role during the Reconquista, the centuries-long struggle between Christian and Muslim forces for control of the Iberian Peninsula. Constructed in 968 AD under the orders of Caliph Al-Hakam II, the fortress was strategically positioned on a hill overlooking the Guadalquivir River, a crucial route linking Córdoba to the Christian kingdoms of the north. This made it a key defensive stronghold for Al-Andalus, guarding against advancing Christian forces.

By the 12th and 13th centuries, as the Christian kingdoms pushed southward, Burgalimar found itself at the heart of military campaigns. In 1225, the castle briefly fell to the forces of King Ferdinand III of Castile, though it later returned to Muslim control. However, in 1227, the Christians permanently seized the fortress, marking a decisive moment in the reconquest of Jaén. The castle was then reinforced and repurposed as a Christian garrison, serving as a crucial defensive point for Castile’s continued expansion into Andalusia.

With its fourteen imposing towers and sturdy Almohad-era walls, Burgalimar remained a formidable military outpost well into the late Middle Ages. It also played a role in securing the Kingdom of Jaén, which became an important border territory between Castile and the remaining Muslim strongholds, particularly the Emirate of Granada. Over time, the castle lost its military significance and transitioned into a symbol of the town’s rich history, standing today as one of Spain’s best-preserved examples of Moorish military architecture.

Saint-Mystère Remains Silent 12

Claire Lefèvre (Saint Mystère, France; Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).

At the edge of Saint-Mystère, just beyond the walnut tree, stands the old Lefèvre house. It's a quiet place—like most things in the village—but not abandoned. If you pass by in the early hours or just before dusk, you might catch a glimpse of Claire Lefèvre moving through the garden, hanging linen, or bringing in firewood. Always busy. Always silent.

She lives there with her father, though few have seen him in recent years. Some say he no longer leaves the upstairs room. Others believe he simply prefers not to be seen. Claire never explains, and no one asks.

People remember her as a child—bright-eyed, quick to smile. Now she moves with purpose, never hurried, never still for long. She tends the house like it matters. As if keeping things in order might hold something in place.

We know very little about her.
But in Saint-Mystère, that is not unusual.

Whispers from the Earth – The Mummies of Quinto (Spain)

Nave of the Church of the Assumption, now the Museum of the Mummies of Quinto.

In the quiet town of Quinto, Aragón, something extraordinary surfaced beneath the old brick floor of a church. When workers began restoring the 15th-century Mudejar church known locally as El Piquete, they expected to uncover layers of dust and perhaps a few bones. What they found instead were naturally preserved human remains—bodies of men, women, and children, wrapped not in linen but in time itself.

These were not deliberate mummifications. There were no chemicals, no wrappings, no rituals meant to preserve the flesh. Instead, the unique microclimate beneath the church—cool, dry, and undisturbed—had done the work that nature rarely does: it kept the bodies intact. Skin, hair, even clothing had survived for centuries in the earth beneath the altar.

Today, this church is no longer a place of worship in the traditional sense. It has become the Museum of the Mummies of Quinto, Spain’s first museum dedicated entirely to naturally mummified remains. The museum doesn’t display death as spectacle, but as story. Each figure—preserved in glass, resting in silence—offers a glimpse into life as it once was in this remote part of Aragón. One was a child who never learned to walk, another an elderly woman whose worn shoes speak volumes. All were ordinary people, buried with dignity and found again with reverence.

The setting itself adds to the experience. El Piquete, with its fortress-like walls and slender Mudejar tower, embraces visitors with history. The preserved bodies rest exactly where they were buried centuries ago, making this museum less an exhibition and more a conversation between past and present.

Far from macabre, the museum invites reflection. What do these quiet bodies say about faith, poverty, sickness, or resilience? About forgotten lives in forgotten towns?

The Mummies of Quinto do not answer. They simply endure.

Interior of the Chapel of Santa Ana with display cases with some of the naturally mummified remains, Museum of the Mummies of Quinto.

Charles V: The Emperor Who Tried to Rule the World

Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain, 1548

At the dawn of the 16th century, Europe was a simmering pot of ambition, rebellion, faith, and war. Into this volatile world stepped Charles V—heir to the most sprawling empire Europe had seen since the Romans. With a crown on nearly every horizon, Charles didn’t just rule kingdoms; he inherited a continent’s worth of conflict.

A Man of Many Crowns

Born in 1500 in Ghent, Charles was a Habsburg by blood, and destiny dealt him a royal flush. By age 19, he was King of Spain (including its vast American colonies), Archduke of Austria, and eventually Holy Roman Emperor—a title that, at least in theory, gave him authority over much of Central Europe. His possessions stretched from Peru to the Philippines, from the Netherlands to Naples.

But with all this power came monumental challenges.

His Challenges: A Europe in Turmoil

Charles was pulled in every direction:

• The Protestant Reformation was exploding across Germany. Sparked by the monk Martin Luther, this religious revolt split Europe between traditional Catholics and the new Protestants. Many local rulers in the Holy Roman Empire (the loose collection of territories Charles was meant to oversee) sided with Luther, not just for faith, but also to gain more independence. These rebellious leaders became known as the Protestant princes.

• France was a constant rival. King Francis I of France spent his life trying to block Charles’s rise, leading to a string of wars and power struggles.

• The Ottoman Empire, under Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, was advancing steadily into Christian Europe, posing a real threat to Charles’s eastern borders.

• Meanwhile, back in Spain and the Netherlands, revolts and resentment brewed against Charles’s centralizing rule. People often saw him as a distant ruler more focused on empire than on their daily struggles.

He wanted a united Christian world—but found himself watching it splinter. He dreamed of peace—but spent most of his reign at war. He believed in order—but ruled over chaos.

His Views: Duty, Devotion, and Dynasty

Charles was a deeply religious man who believed it was his God-given duty to defend the Catholic faith and keep Europe united under one Christian emperor. He also saw himself as a guardian of the Habsburg dynasty, whose wealth and power had been built through centuries of strategic marriages and alliances.

He held to an older, almost medieval vision of empire: one Christian ruler, one faith, one harmonious order. But Europe was changing fast. The printing press, Protestant ideas, and rising national ambitions were creating a new kind of world that Charles couldn’t control.

His Solutions: Talks, Wars, and Letting Go

To face the growing tensions in his empire, Charles used two tools: negotiation and force.

He frequently called large political gatherings known as “diets”—meetings where all the rulers of the Holy Roman Empire would come together. At these diets (like the famous Diet of Worms in 1521), Charles tried to persuade the princes and church leaders to stay united and loyal, especially on religious matters.

But when talks failed, he went to war—especially against the Protestant princes, who had broken with the Catholic Church and challenged his authority.

Sometimes he won, like at the Battle of Mühlberg in 1547, but victories didn’t last. The deeper problems—religious division, local resistance, and the sheer size of his empire—were too much for one man to solve.

By the 1550s, sick and weary, Charles realized he couldn’t hold it all together.

In 1556, he made a remarkable decision: he gave up the throne. He split his empire in two:

• To his son Philip II, he gave Spain, its colonies, and the Netherlands.

• To his brother Ferdinand, he gave the Austrian lands and the imperial title.

Charles then retired to a monastery in Spain, where he died two years later.

Legacy: A Man Before His Time—or Behind It?

Charles V remains one of the most fascinating figures in European history: an emperor with unmatched power who spent his life chasing peace and unity—but mostly found division and unrest. He tried to hold the old world together just as the new world was being born.

He was too Catholic for the age of religious freedom, too imperial for the rise of national states, and too committed to control for a Europe that was slipping into modernity.

But in his failures, we see the shape of the Europe that came after him: divided, plural, and constantly negotiating between power and principle. Charles didn’t conquer the world—but he showed us how hard it is to try.

Manuale Scholarium: A Medieval Student’s Guide to Survival and Shenanigans

The title page of the Manuale Scholarium, a copy from 1492, printed in Deventer (The Netherlands).

If you think student life in the Middle Ages was all about silent monks hunched over manuscripts, think again. The Manuale Scholarium, a 15th-century guide to the dos and don’ts of university life, is a riotous, sharp-witted, and surprisingly relatable glimpse into the world of medieval scholars.

From the very first page, the Manuale makes it clear that studying is only part of the student experience. A scholar, it warns, must be cunning as well as learned:

“The wise student knows when to debate and when to hold his tongue—for many a professor loves the sound of his own voice more than the truth itself.”

The book reads like a mix of survival guide and insider gossip, covering everything from how to avoid punishment for missing lectures to the best ways to win the favor of wealthy patrons. It does not shy away from the realities of student poverty, offering advice on stretching a meal and securing a free drink:

“If you must choose between buying books and buying ale, buy ale—for a man with friends may always borrow a book, but a book alone will not bring him friends.”

Despite its playful tone, the Manuale also has moments of genuine wisdom, reminding students that learning is more than just memorizing texts. It urges them to travel, to listen, to debate, and to experience the world beyond the classroom walls:

“A scholar who never wanders beyond the city gate is like a bird that refuses to leave its cage—he sings well enough, but he knows nothing of the sky.”

Reading the Manuale Scholarium today is like stepping into a medieval tavern filled with rowdy, brilliant young minds—some studious, some scheming, but all navigating the strange world of university life. It is proof that, despite the centuries, students have always been students: curious, ambitious, rebellious, and sometimes just looking for a clever way to skip a boring lecture. Anyone with an interest in history—or who has ever been a student themselves—will find this book utterly irresistible.

The Cathars of Carcassonne

Château Comtal in Carcassonne.

The Cathars were a Christian religious group that emerged in the 12th century in Southern France, particularly in the Languedoc region, challenging the authority and beliefs of the Catholic Church. Known for their dualistic beliefs, Cathars viewed the material world as evil, created by a malevolent deity, while the spiritual world was seen as pure and good. They advocated for a life of simplicity, rejecting wealth, church sacraments, and the clergy’s authority. Their spiritual leaders, known as Perfecti (the "perfect ones"), lived ascetically, embodying the Cathar ideals of purity and rejecting worldly attachments.

The rise of Catharism posed a significant threat to the Catholic Church, which responded with a crusade known as the Albigensian Crusade (1209-1229), initiated by Pope Innocent III to eradicate the movement. One of the first major targets of this campaign was Carcassonne, a thriving Cathar stronghold and a center of resistance against the crusaders. In 1209, the city was besieged and fell to the forces of Simon de Montfort, who expelled the citizens and took control. Château Comtal, the fortress at the heart of Carcassonne’s medieval citadel, became a key strategic point for the crusaders as they sought to consolidate power in the region. The castle, once controlled by the Trencavel family—who were sympathetic to the Cathars—was seized and transformed into a royal stronghold, reinforcing the Church’s and the French crown’s dominance over the region.

The crusade continued with brutal massacres and the seizure of other Cathar refuges, including the famous siege of Montségur in 1244, where hundreds of Cathars were burned at the stake. Additionally, the Inquisition was established to root out Cathar heretics, leading to the persecution and execution of countless believers.

By the 14th century, the Cathars had largely been eliminated, but their legacy endures as a symbol of religious dissent and resistance against ecclesiastical authority. Their history continues to intrigue and inspire interest in the themes of spiritual purity, opposition to corruption, and the tragic consequences of religious intolerance. The fortified Cité de Carcassonne, with Château Comtal at its heart, stands as a reminder of these turbulent times.

The Carlist Wars

Carlos María Isidro de Borbón and Isabella II (María Isabel Luisa de Borbón y Borbón-Dos Sicilias).

The Carlist Wars (1833–1876) were a series of civil conflicts in Spain that stemmed from a dynastic dispute and broader ideological divisions between traditionalists and liberals. The wars erupted after the death of King Ferdinand VII in 1833, when his daughter, Isabella II (1830-1904), was named queen under the regency of her mother, Maria Christina of the Two Sicilies. This succession was challenged by Carlos María Isidro de Borbón (1788-1855), the king’s younger brother, who claimed the throne based on the principle of male primogeniture. His supporters, known as Carlists, represented a deeply conservative faction that sought to preserve absolute monarchy, regional fueros (traditional rights), and the influence of the Catholic Church.

Opposing the Carlists were the liberal supporters of Isabella II, who aimed to modernize Spain through constitutional monarchy, centralized governance, and secular reforms. The struggle between these factions led to three major Carlist Wars (1833–1840, 1846–1849, and 1872–1876), primarily affecting regions like the Basque Country, Navarra, Catalonia, and Aragón, where Carlist support was strongest.

These wars had a lasting impact on Spain’s political and social landscape, reinforcing deep divisions that persisted well into the 20th century. The Carlist movement continued as a political force even after its military defeat, influencing Spanish conservatism and nationalist movements.